Poetry

Olympia
by Ursula Whitcher

Time is only distance. I’m choosing a flight
for your funeral, shuffling those tiny red eyes.
If I pick the right flight, the half-house
on pilings is whole. The tide flows out
and then in. My father climbs stairs made of tires.
He is eight. A bramble grows in the center
of the step. He pulls it out by the thorns.
I unroll my sleeping bag, on the deck
where the house was. The tide’s coming in.

There are little dog-sharks in the water.
A second house washed on the beach.
We balance on deck and throw fireworks down
so they spin, green lights under water.